Modern Romanticism

Was anything remaining
after we were engraining
our histories into pages of skin?
Our love rose like tides,
ending in withered roses.
Our faces were watching stars,
in this mutual formation of scars.

You are being made bountiful,
in love with a different type
of feathered life.

You are soaring,
in hearing your heartbeat
skip over me.

I am held back.
I remain not chosen
for a better path,
other than this,
other than stale bliss.

I’ve been hearing
this heart fade, in its music.
I’ve been scaring
all those signs away.
I’ve been praying
you will bring it back
to that day.

To that second
we stood before eruptions,
before destruction,
never looking away
while we faced it all,
hearing ourselves call
to one another,

from across a gentle,
or a furious sea.